State Alchemist 21
by Mr. Mushroom
Summary: Collaboration with Fizzy 13. Amestris, 2006. Meet the next generation of State Alchemists. Please review.
1. Prologue: State of the State Address

Fizzy's Notes: This was originally a fic idea from last year that I just couldn't seem to conceptualize well enough, so I converted it into an RP on a forum to hunt for ideas. Suffice to say, it turned out pretty well. I found a collaborator in an old friend of mine who joined, and we expanded the story well beyond the RP's original scope. Its purpose served, and to retain some of its original charm (a n00b was ruining the whole thing), Mushroom and I let it die, and set the ideas into work

Mushroom's Notes: Too lazy. Aye, whatever the hells he said.

Disclaimer: FMA belongs to Hiromu Arakawa. The characters Dominique Midas, Jurdis, and Pandemonium belong to their creators (Box, Co Dominic Kane, and ShaolinMonkey, respectively). And us? Well, we're just along for the ride.

"_Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is Alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. Or so my professor says. But against the challenges of an age like the twenty-first century, does this old saying still hold true? For the sake of what I will be attempting in a few hours, it damn well better! Because right now, I'm willing to give almost anything just to have her back."_

_- John Smith, on Equivalent Exchange_

Fizzy and Mushroom Productions Proudly Presents:

**State Alchemist 21**

_Amestris. The year is 2006. Lots of things have changed in the past eight or so decades. Most notable would be the fact that Central has evolved into a bustling metropolis, combining towering glass and steel skyscrapers with its quaint, early 20th century city appearance. Technological advances have allowed for more compact engines, as well as the advent of computers and television. However, due to the Amestrians' blatant disregard for physics, these are only in their most primitive states - snowy black and white screens, coupled with operating systems that only expert programmers would understand. Aircraft have not fared much better either. Blimps fly in the place of airplanes and helicopters. Jet propulsion is unheard of. For the most part, the presence of alchemy as the dominant science has stunted their technological growth by up to half a century in many areas, compared to Earth. The largest industry around is of course, automail, spearheaded by the biggest corporation on the continent, RockMail, and its executives, the young Brothers Rockbell._

_The Führer-led military dictatorship had returned immediately after the 1985 Purity Revolution. And while Führer Christopher Abrams is well-meaning, he has been the strictest dictator the nation has ever seen. A curfew is in place, and restrictive laws abound. That has not stopped crime, though, and the ghettos that had risen during to the decades of the parliament's corruption have become hotspots for all sorts of illegal activity, which the Military Police is at best, struggling to prevent from spreading into other parts of the city. They have no control whatsoever of what lurks within the ghettos' seedy streets._

_And of course, there are the State Alchemists. Perhaps one of the few things that have not changed at all would be this aspect of the State. These talented individuals remain the most elite of the military's dogs, respected by some, feared or envied by many others. Many of the Old Families, such as the Armstrongs, continue to make their name from this particular niche. The tests themselves have only grown more rigorous, and there are years where nobody at all is chosen to bear the coveted silver pocket watch. _

_Amidst all this, a storm is brewing. Unlike the days of old where the conspiracies went all the way to the top, however, this storm comes from across the Cretan Ocean, in the form of another country - Prometheus. Apparently having developed in parallel to Amestris, Prometheus has a different stand on things. As opposed to the Amestrians' extremely backward physics and the virtual non-existence of alchemy on Earth, they have made a compromise: a combination of both worlds - physics on one hand, alchemy on the other._

_Equivalent Exchange, however, has given them no slack on their little smooth move. Their physics pale against that of Earth. Furthermore, the most advanced of their alchemy can be summarized by the average Amestrian Senior High School's Alchemy subject for the fourth year. Ornithopters comprise the fighter and bomber wings of the Promethean Air Corps, and though superior to the Amestrian Air Warship in terms of speed and maneuverability, are nevertheless more difficult to control than a WWII fighter plane._

_Tensions between the two nations have always been uneasy since their first contact some fifty years back, but now the Prometheans have begun to push the envelope. Intelligence reports indicate that their neighbors are planning to create their own Philosopher's Stone, something that Amestris had labeled as an act of genocide. Führer Abrams has ordered the mobilization of all branches of the State Military in preparation for 'preventive measures' should the Prometheans actually engage in this endeavor. Along with this, he has also declared a State of State Emergency, beckoning all citizens to assist in this situation. _

_Of course, one must not forget to mention that in the past 40 years, another major 'change' was the emergence of a new form of internal threat. That is to say, a terrorist group known as the Ishballan Liberation Front, the apparent strategy of which is the killing State Alchemists in order to scare the State into rebuilding Ishbal for them. Naturally, the Parliament, and later Abrams, refused to give in. Instead, he has pushed for the search and elimination of all those involved. Special Forces are on constant raids, attempting to snuff out the flames of the little cells they find. In particular, Amestris' elite counterterrorism unit, Security Section (or simply S2), has been harder at work than ever._

_Now, as the Führer makes his first public appearance for the period of the State of State Emergency, crowds gather in the hundreds of thousands at Central Amphitheater. Some to listen to his next speech, others with less-than-benign intentions..._

**Prologue: State of the State Address**

The convoy of three heavily escorted limos plowed through the streets of Central City, on the way to their intended destination. Two were obviously decoys. After all, this kind of defensive tactic would logically be employed by anybody wishing to protect their leader. The streets themselves were now bare, blockaded by the military police and at some points, even the regular army. Save for these pointers to the contrary, it would appear to the casual observer that Central was now a long-evacuated ghost town.

Careful detail and planning had been given to this move. After all, in such times of turmoil, any madman could just as easily try to assassinate the Führer, some even with gusto to commit the murder in broad daylight. This was just the reason why the limousines were completely identical. Model, make, plate numbers, and even the little details like nicks and personal customizations. Heavy tint prevented anybody from peeking to see which had who riding in them. Only blind luck would have any potential killer strike the correct one with the first shot. And even then, they were of course, bullet-proofed. Inside one, whichever it was, sat three men dressed in the telltale uniform of the State Military, apparently discussing an important matter to the tune of some piece of classical music or another.

"Are you sure that these preparations will be enough, General?" the oldest of the group inquired. White, wiry hair swept to the back of his head emphasized his stern face, particularly the piercing gaze set by his icy blue eyes. This same gaze set itself on the bald, mustached, heavyset man who sat across from him, back hunched over for the sake of fitting into the cramped space.

"I am most certain, Führer!" the large man answered. Pink sparkles somehow magically flitted about his face, for some strange reason. "S2 has an entire battalion on site, dispersed and hidden throughout the crowds. There's absolutely no way that the ILF will know about them! Add to that the presence of the Military Police, and touching you will be a virtual impossibility!"

"I hope, for your sake, General Armstrong, that you are correct." Age did little to weaken the commanding feeling imparted by his voice. "Because I have the feeling that the Ishballans will see this as the perfect time to strike."

Major General John Henry Armstrong cracked his knuckles in response, and struck a pose, pink sparkles intensifying for a brief moment. "Fret not, O Führer! This method of organizing security protocol has been pa-" He was interrupted as the Führer's hand snapped up in front of him in a halting gesture.

"Not. Another. Word. General. I don't need to hear about _yet another_ completely random talent that you have inherited from your forefathers. What about the State Alchemists?"

"I ordered them all to come as a requirement, sir," the muscular Armstrong flexed his shoulders. "Dispersed through the crowds to protect them from targeting - a protective technique that has been-"

"What did I say about your goddamn tradition, General Armstrong?" Abrams' eyebrows met in annoyance of having to remind this man every single time. Nevertheless, putting up with Armstrong's ludicrous eccentricities was a small price to pay. The general's family had a rich history of greatness, and much as Abrams hated to admit it, every skill he bragged about was truly worthy of boasting.

"Err..."

"That's what I thought." He turned to a third, evidently junior officer. This one was younger than the two, possibly in his early thirties or so. "Colonel Lockheed, check up on the preparations."

Martin Lockheed was the commanding officer of S2. He might not have been a Combat State Alchemist, but he was sure as hell capable of killing one if he wanted to. An S2 Operator was that skilled. Of course, this really depended on which State Alchemist that one was talking about. Some were harder to kill than the others. So he settled with the 'average' State Alchemist... whatever that was. He drew his comm. "All units, this is Big Blue. Report in."

The responses were almost immediate, each one done by a neutral voice seemingly close to drowning in the background noise of a crowd.

"Unit One reporting. Red Carpet is secure."

"Unit Two reporting. Lobby is secure."

"Unit Three reporting. Hallway Six is secure."

"Four Leader reporting for units Four to Seven. Main Amphitheater is secure. Every angle is covered. You are cleared for entry."

"Roger that, units. Stay frosty. Big Blue out." Lockheed put it away and turned to look at the Führer, perhaps looking for approval in his gaze. He found none. After all, the ultimate test to the efficacy of any preparation was the moment of its deployment. "S2 has the place covered, sir. And as General Armstrong said, the Military Police should provide an excellent show of force in dissuading any nut who might try to pull a fast one." The convoy turned around at the final curb and pulled up to the massive structure's entrance, where crowds and news crews were already gathered. Viewed from such an angle, they appeared to be a box full of squirming rice grains, eager to escape from the confines given them by the thin red barrier cables. "Your audience awaits, sir."

And so it was then that the back doors on all three limos opened at the same time. Of course, only one of them was occupied, it seemed. And for all it was worth, it so happened to be the one in the center. First out was Colonel Lockheed, followed by General Armstrong, then finally, the Führer himself, who was immediately swamped by the paparazzi.

"Your Excellency, care to clue us in on your speech tonight?" a particular reporter, who happened to be quick enough to get by Abrams' side, managed to ask.

"There will be no 'clues', my boy," Abrams waved him off; "All questions will be answered at the speech. Media censors, please." At this simple command, the MP's dragged off the still snapping reporters to a determined safe location, giving them strict instructions to proceed to an aptly-marked 'media booth'. In a matter of seconds, the swarm of newsmen were replaced by a swarm of MP escorts.

Though it wasn't exactly as smooth as he'd hoped it would be, at least it created the illusion of safety. That is, the real protection was a battalion of S2 Operators running around in civilian clothing, complemented by an S2 sniper team scattered across the high places of the amphitheater. And thus began the parading down the red carpet, which for the most part, was uneventful. He did see a few unfriendly-looking faces, though. Some of which were dark skinned, with red eyes. The ILF had boys in the house. Tonight was going to take a turn for the more active. He could tell.

General Armstrong and Colonel Lockheed were deposited at a couple of front row seats. Pouncing at them from one of the nearby chairs would be Tristan Havoc, Lieutenant Führer and founder of what had become known as NutriCom Corporation. Son of the late Major Jean Havoc, one would expect Tristan to appear his age – 73. The fact was, however, was that he only looked half that. In fact, if one would compare him to his father, the resemblance was terrifying. Due to his health-obsessed lifestyle, though, the Lieutenant Führer was more powerfully built, and was never once seen with Jean's signature cigarettes. Upon catching the two men by surprise, Havoc began rattling off about his company's latest product.

Abrams gave the group a thoughtful look. These natural supplements could truly keep a man looking young despite his age. He was fifteen years younger than the Lieutenant Führer, and yet many people could easily mistake _him_ to be the father. Perhaps he could try some of these sometime. He owed them that much. After all, NutriCom Corporation was his biggest financial supporter during the revolution. It wouldn't hurt to pay back a few hundred cenz's worth of vitamins, would it? Still flanked by half a dozen MP's, he ascended to the podium and began his speech.

* * *

"Explain to me…" Elisi twirled a pistol around her right index finger, evidently bored. "Why the _hell_ do we have to listen to this old fart bag talk again?" dark brown waist-length hair trailed behind her, contrasted to a yellow hair ribbon that would get any enlisted woman wearing it killed. The high-class smile that one would usually find on her face was absent, normally sparkling gold eyes dulled down with a sense of melancholy that seemed capable of crushing anybody's spirit. 

To her right, Dominique momentarily took her attention away from the speech happening some twenty or so rows down, shoulder-length raven hair flowing with the twist of her neck. Amber eyes met those of Elisi, mirroring her own in that boredom, though to a lesser degree. What made this girl stand out was the interesting set of ornaments that she wore. Pure gold necklace, pure gold bracelets, all superimposed onto her uniform. "Armstrong's orders."

"That obsessive-compulsive body builder?" Elisi huffed at the person in question, flinging the pistol into the air and catching it effortlessly upon its descent. "Come on, Dom! They could have thought of a better excuse than 'it's orders'! I mean, it would be so much easier for all of us if they'd broadcast this damn thing from Central HQ!"

Dominique merely shook her head. See, that was the problem when you were friends with somebody like this girl. This girl, Elisi, was hyperactive to the core, perhaps even eccentric to a point. And once she locked eyes with you, there would start a connection that would last for life. "Apparently, somebody thought it was a good idea to keep hold of the people's attention by removing their ability to just change the channel."

"Damn! They thought of _that_ too?" Elisi said, a look of surprise on her face.

Dominique slapped her forehead in irritation. "Of course they did! And I thought you were the one who grew up in the city."

"Watch it, hick," the former cocked her pistol.

"City girl." The latter placed a hand on the gold choker around her neck.

"Cynic Ice Queen."

"Psycho Gun Nut."

One could imagine the sparks of tension flying all over the place as the two locked eyes. It would also be fitting to see an inferno blazing in the background.

A growl resounded beside them. "Do you two mind? I'm trying to listen here!"

Elisi's eyebrow shot up. "You? Listening to what the old man has to say? Alright, impostor! Tell me where you hid the dog!"

It was more of an odd joke than a serious accusation. Nevertheless, Viktor growled even more, his hidden feral side coming ever closer to showing itself. Right now, he had his lengthy lime green hair tied into a ponytail, as per regulation. But when he showed his more… undesirable… form, it couldn't get any messier than that. Elisi backed down and re-holstered her sidearm. At this range, she wouldn't be able to handle the Werewolf Alchemist should he think of mauling her. "The only reason I'm listening to 'His Excellency' rant on about the State of State Emergency is because it's sure as hell a lot easier on the ears than putting up with you two fighting over listening!"

Dominique smirked as Elisi pouted back into her seat. Nothing like a little lecture from the big man to put the gun nut in her place. She turned her attention to the scene at the center of the building. It was going to be another one of those nights.

* * *

"Which is why," Abrams was nearing the end of his speech, making that final wrap-up, "I implore you, the citizens of this great State of Amestris, to-" 

"THAT'S IT!" One of the officers in the front row drew his sidearm and leapt up to the stage, easily bypassing the surrounding MP's and capturing the Führer in a headlock. "I can't take it anymore!"

The other brass on the front row stood up in horror. Armstrong had somehow managed to put on a face for the occasion, dramatic skill making all the others look like they were having a moment of bad acting. Havoc gritted his teeth at his being powerless. None of his products could bring a man back from the dead.

Only one person in the front row remained undaunted by the scene. Sitting to the right of Lieutenant Führer Havoc, Lieutenant General Nelson Northrop calmly adjusted his circular glasses. As Chief of Intelligence, it paid to keep one's cool. Siphoning information took much patience, and that was exactly what he had. A little surprise like this was nothing. What did this have to do with him keeping calm? The fact was, he seemed to be the only person who remembered that His Excellency wasn't one to so easily to succumb to such a cowardly attack. After all, Christopher Abrams wasn't jokingly referred to as the Killer Flashlight Alchemist for nothing.

Nevertheless, Northrop was not one to deprive S2 of performing their duty. He signaled to Lockheed, who immediately got to work and scrambled for his comm. "Rifles! What're you waiting for? Take the shot!"

"Big Blue, this is Rifle Four-One. I don't have the shot. It's too risky."

"Rifle Four-Two. Angle's too bad from my area."

"Rifle Five-One. Can't take this one..."

The negative reports streamed in all the way to Rifle Seven-Two. All were the same. The angle was too bad, or there was too much of a risk for the bullet to over penetrate and hurt the Führer as well. Any shot that _was_ available, wouldn't be enough to incapacitate the raving captain, thus giving him a chance to kill His Excellency before any other move could be made. Lockheed cursed under his breath. How could something like this have happened? Eight S2 snipers all panned out and sharing 360 degrees of the stage, and yet none of them were capable of taking the shot. It was plainly stupid.

The officer continued to ramble on. "I have to do it! I have to reveal the truth!"

"And what, pray tell, is this truth you speak of, Captain?" It amazed everybody, save perhaps Northrop, that Abrams remained cool despite being in such a snag. Of course, it was probably just for show. He could have been in the early stages of a heart attack. Then again, you could tell from the physical signs that his calm was in fact, genuine.

"Why don't you stop playing dumb and admit it already!? You don't want to save the world from Prometheus' Philosopher Stone Project! You're plotting to destroy Prometheus to complete the Philosopher Stone and use it for your own ends!" The Captain pulled the hammer back. "And I'm going to make sure you don't!"

"That, is the foulest load of BULLSHIT I have ever heard, Captain. Why don't you just Sit. Down. Before things get bloodier than they have to be?"

"Y... you can't fool me, you madman! He told me everything! He knows about all of your conspiracies!"

"He?"

"Yes! The Boss Man! You can't hide the truth from him! He knows everything!" the captain slowly pulled the trigger. "This is it, Abrams. Prepare to see the Gate!"

And that was when he struck. Nobody saw how he did it or when, but he just did. The Führer's movements were too fast for anybody to see him elbow the crazed officer, draw his flashlight, transmute the beam, and get to work. The next sight that registered in anybody's brain was Abrams switching off his torch and returning it to his coat pocket as he stood over several chunks of what used to be a would-be political murderer. He turned to one of the MP's. "Clean up this mess, Lieutenant. I have a speech to conclude."

The MP merely saluted and ordered his men to do just that. The Führer returned to the podium and continued his speech.

"Did you see that mothafu-" a petite hand covered the large man's mouth.

"What did I tell you about swearing in the middle of a recon operation?" An equally-petite voice admonished. "The Boss wants us to watch the event, not blow it to kingdom come!"

"Yeah, but how the fu- eh... _heck_... can we kill someone with that fu-_ freakin'_ high a level of skill!?"

"We don't. That's for the Boss to take care of. Right now, and thank God it's a Friday night, we have to see just who's a threat to the big bang, and who isn't."

"Fine. But once we do, I got dibs on kickin' their... mofo... as- behinds..."

* * *

Radios crackled in the darkness. "Scorpion Five, report...what's the status on the target?" 

"...false-alarm. We have not moved yet, over..."

"…Roger, Scorpion Five. Continue with the mission. Out..."

A man wearing black camouflage gear switched the link off, and placed his hands back on his silenced rifle. Hidden in the foliage outside of the stadium, just outside the range of the incessant MP patrols, he adjusted his night-vision goggles, ready to start his intended mission.

Inside the amphitheater, particularly, a closed-off section used for storing maintenance tools, a group of men prepared themselves for the trial to come. This group carried an assortment of gear, such as automatic rifles, masks, and what looked like smoke grenades. With the exception of one of them, who wore apparently normal and slightly beat-up civilian clothes, they looked like a bunch of Special Forces operators. Reality is cruel, however. The fact was they were ILF, sworn to persuade the State to restore Ishbal to its proper glory.

The civilian-looking one spoke in a low voice. "The mission is still on. The target has been confronted by a separate man. We go on ahead as planned."

"...what happened to the Target? Anything?" inquired one of his companions. A separate confrontation? Disastrous. Ishballa be with them tonight should things go bad.

"I'm not sure, but he was able to protect himself. The attacker was probably just a soldier gone mad. He had the element of surprise with him as well, but he still failed. The Führer isn't somebody to be so easily killed by a stray bullet." Jurdis adjusted his glasses. He returned the conversation to its original course. "Which is why I assigned you to clear an escape. _I_ handle the target. It is my solemn duty as Ishballa's Prophet. We each have a specific duty to uphold, and we have to depend on each other and Ishballa to do them."

He pulled back his left arm sleeve, revealing a wristwatch, along with what looked like the tip of a large tattoo on his arm. He checked the time.

"We have fifteen minutes. Let us pray." Ishballa would hear them tonight. There was no doubt about that. And he would empower them to prevail in their endeavor.

mvmvmvmvmmvmvmvmvmvm

Fireteam Ditch moved fluidly through the passage. By this time, the Amphitheater had already been cleared out, the speech long finished. The Führer and his convoy had slipped past just like that. It was a minor setback. They'd get him at the reception hall. It just so happened that they ran into a couple of people dressed oddly in black, who were also seemingly in a hurry to get out of the building.

One of them was a large, brawny, man, sporting a Mohawk, black denim vest, and enough gold jewelry to buy a few cars. That, and a look that said he was extremely pissed. The other one was a petite schoolgirl of about sixteen, in what was recognizable as the Central University's uniform. She brandished silky black hair that went down to the small of her back, a well-developed bust for her size, and a pair of rimless glasses that gave off an air of a highly calculating intellect.

The two groups stopped in their tracks, seemingly sizing each other up. Fireteam Ditch raised their rifles to possibly scare these two off. "Out of the way! Now!"

The large Mohawk man, possibly the girl's bodyguard, was the first of the other group to react. "Dayum! That is the FUCKING UGLIEST set of MOTHAFUCKING baklavas ah have EVER FUCKING seen!" These three curse words were enhanced to blasphemous proportions, each one transforming into a sonic boom so powerful that it not only knocked the Ishballans several feet back, it also caused a very evident amount of structural decay. It seemed as though because of this, the entire hallway was just ready to collapse.

The schoolgirl sighed in exasperation and shook her head. "Nice job! Now we're gonna have to kill them and cause yet _another_ uncalled-for mess for the Boss to clean up."

"Well it wasn't mah fault! It was those fat-ass mothafucking baklava bitches!" Two more sonic booms.

"Quit it! We wanna kill them, not topple the whole building!"

"Fine, fine." He cracked his knuckles. Ever since the Boss had assigned the two of them to run around and watch stuff, he hadn't been able to pound anybody. Now was his first chance in weeks. "But ah pity da foo' who hears five of mah outbursts and lives ta hear five more!" With surprising speed, the man rushed into the recovering group and began to beat them senseless.

The girl merely sighed as she drew a handgun. She _hated_ working with this brute. Why did he have to spend so much time performing such inefficient acts of blunt killing anyway? That was, simply put, a waste of her precious time. Four gunshots later, and Fireteam Ditch was off to meet their god. "Play time's over, Blasphemy. Let's go."

"But-"

"No 'buts'. I have enough weekend homework as it is already. Let's GO."

Blasphemy muttered his complaints in a series of non-cusses as the pair slipped away into the night.

* * *

Jurdis strolled up to the entrance of the reception hall, hands in his pockets. The timing was perfect, shown quite well when his earpiece came to life. 

"...This is Fireteam Pillar, first objective accomplished."

"...Fireteam Cavern, first objective accomplished."

"...Fireteam Boulder, first objective accomplished."

Jurdis noticed a gap in the reports. Fireteam Ditch had yet to report in. He adjusted the frequency and made the call. "Fireteam Ditch, this is Savior. Have you reached you objective? Over." Only static answered his inquiry. Jurdis frowned at this untimely setback. But the target was so close by... he had to take the shot. It was now or never. He realigned the frequency. "All Fireteams, we go on as planned. Over and out."

The Prophet clenched his fist as he put it back into his pocket. He calmly walked into the crowd, towards the Führer's entourage.

The guards noticed him approaching, and stopped him from continuing on said course.

"Stop! This is a restricted area! You must leave immediately!" said one of the guards. The Führer merely glanced behind him to see what was happening. Jurdis looked up at the soldiers and said, "Get out of my way."

Before they knew it, their exploding guts were flinging them back to the edge of the stage, with Jurdis' arms extended, emitting a red, crackling energy. The minute the soldiers hit the floor, smoke grenades scattered around the area, blanketing the area with a grey fog. Immediately, gunshots were being fired everywhere. Fireteams Pillar through Cavern were now rushing along the sides of the hall, engaging all of the guards who tried to fight back, but were too stunned to do so. People were frantically trying to get out of the area, leaving the Führer alone with the large bald man – the Strong Hammer Alchemist. "You were fools if you thought you could escape the wrath of Ishballa," said Jurdis. He pulled back his right sleeve, showing the tattoo on his arm. "This arm will ensure you do not leave here alive."

"See?" Abrams stressed his earlier point, looking at the intruder with only a faint interest. He seemed… bored, despite the situation. "I _told_ you that the ILF would be striking today." He could make out the markings on the young man's arm through the smoke. "And I see that their hypocrisy is ever-present. General, if you please?"

"You brag about your arms and the horrifying secrets that they hold!" Armstrong reached behind him and drew a pair of sledgehammers that appeared to be made of pencil lead, and spun them around like two batons for a few moments in a showboat before bringing the hammerheads together. The resulting transmutation converted the material into a substance that had an almost eerie resemblance to that which once coated the body of the homunculus known as Greed. "Know, however, that even the Philosopher Stone's Array is no match against the techniques that have been passed along the Armstrong line for ge-"

Clearly irritated, the Führer interrupted him yet again. "Oh for Godsakes, Armstrong! GET ON WITH IT!"

"Of course sir!" Right hammer dropped to the floor, causing a shockwave of nasty proportions. Debris flew in many directions, though mostly upwards, as the general began to spin with his weapons outstretched. Soon, the man known as the Strong Hammer Alchemist had transformed into a miniature tornado. Each bit of shattered marble that was struck transformed into a spike or cannonball that was shot in the Ishballan's general direction. Jurdis began to dodge these, slowly advancing through the hailstorm, intending to get that large buffoon out of his way. What he couldn't dodge, he deconstructed with his arm.

Just before he could reach out and grab one of the general's hammers, however, the floor between them surged up into a thick wall that practically split the reception hall into two rooms. Armed men in suits stormed in from that side where the two officers were. The general was bewildered, to say the least, and began to examine the wall, that is until a hand reached up and pulled him away. "I wouldn't get too close to that thing if I were you, sir," the voice was smooth and young, with just a hint of brashness to it.

Armstrong looked down to see a youth in a formal suit and coat, recognizable by his gold-blonde hair that found its way into a ponytail. "Edgar Rockbell! So it was you who set up this temporary barrier!" the general took a moment to examine the alchemically crafted wall. Its structure was not too intricate as to suffer obvious damage from erosion, but not too plain as to appear as a bare slab of a wall. Embossed on this side, and presumably the other, was the RockMail Corporation Logo – an automail fist, the capital letter "R" engraved onto the backhand side.

"It was more of Al, actually, but yeah. We both had a hand in it." Ed thumbed in the Führer's direction, where he was now having a chat with another young man in a suit - Allan Rockbell. "We'd better get moving before Sunglasses over there breaks the wall down." At a snap of his fingers, the dozen or so bodyguards lined up in front of said wall. The other dozen swamped the Führer, general, and the executives as they ran for the car park.

By now, S2 and the regular army had APC's, IFV's, and tanks in the area. Lockheed, Havoc, and Northrop were standing among the 'regulars' that were at the staging point, having been evacuated with the rest of the surviving officers. "It's the Führer!"

Everybody stood to attention. "Gentlemen, we can have the formalities later. What is the status of the reception hall?"

"Security cameras indicate that no civilians or military personnel are left in there... save for the RockMail body-"

"The bodyguards have all been killed, sir!" announced the technician watching the video feed. "The Tangos are now looking for a way out!"

Abrams glanced at the building. With a transmutation as haphazardly put up without any consideration for structural decay whatsoever as that wall, it was bound to collapse any day. "Might as well save the demolition crews the trouble." He turned to Lockheed. "Get me a searchlight." The S2 commander returned a puzzled stare for a moment, until he realized what was going on. "And get everybody to clear the area between us and the reception hall." Both orders were complied with within moments.

The Führer procured a piece of chalk and inscribed a circle onto the back of the large implement. Upon touching it, the beam narrowed into a blade, wide as its source, which practically cut its way over a mile up into the night sky. "Enow, we end this." With help from the burly General Armstrong, he tilted the searchlight down to the west of the building and swung it to the east side for one quick, thorough cut. Its support gone, the reception hall crumbled in a matter of seconds.

It took approximately ten seconds for everybody save Abrams to recover from having their jaws almost drop to the ground. He turned to Havoc. "Tristan, I want this mess cleaned up within the week. You're in charge." The Lieutenant Führer saluted as His Excellency's attention carried over to Lockheed. "And Colonel... I believe that S2's incompetence is to be held responsible for this eh... early demolition." Understanding his situation entirely, Lockheed nodded. Abrams scanned the faces of everybody else who was present. "We shall deal with this fiasco immediately, gentlemen. Right now, I want Intelligence to investigate everything that has gone on here. S2 reports to Central Headquarters at once. All State Alchemists are to report to General Armstrong's office first thing in the morning." He stepped into an IFV. "Let's move out!" After some final preparations following his orders, the armored unit rolled off into the night.

End Prologue

Fizzy's Notes: To all those who took part in the RP, I give you my deepest thanks. We wouldn't have done it without you. To those of you who're just reading this now? Well… don't forget to drop a review!


	2. Chapter One: Bones and Briefing

Fizzy's Notes: Not really much I can say here. Perhaps that maybe this chapter will be shorter, and that the scenes won't be so cluttered and haphazardly arranged. XD

Mushroom's Notes: I've got nothing to say up here. Down there is the good stuff. So read and understand the chapter, then read my notes below!

Disclaimer: We don't own FMA. If we did, we'd be rolling in kijillions of yen right about now. All pre-script quotes, unless stated otherwise, are the product of our totally bored imaginations. :P

"_He lurks in shadows and needs no rest  
But blood is not his hunger's quest  
With Reaper's grin and ivory stake  
Your bones be his, make no mistake.!"_

_- Excerpt from 'King of Bones', 'Modern Amestrian Folktales', Vol. 13_

**Chapter 1: Bones and Briefings**

If you were to drive by Central Amphitheater right about now, that is to say, at around 6:08AM on the morning of September 2nd, 2006, you would see that the place had become the military equivalent of a Crime Scene. Bright yellow tape reading "_Restriction Line, DO NOT CROSS!"_ surrounded the building in question, with several military vehicles and dozens of personnel doing this and that. Searchlights were shut off as the first few rays of dawn struck the scene. The sunlight should be sufficient for now.

An emerald green mini drove up to the main entrance, the red carpet now rolled up somewhere, and stopped just short of the restriction line. Those soldiers and MP's who saw this miniscule means of transportation immediately recognized it and saluted the man who stepped out. While already starting to bald from his age, this particular officer still had several tufts of graying hair on the sides and back of his head, enough to say that he had his own distinctive hairstyle. He adjusted his glasses as he surveyed the area. It seemed that this place was still off limits.

A particularly fidgety female captain approached the officer and snapped to a salute. "General Northrop sir! Captain Viola Merkava with 68th Investigations!"

Northrop returned the gesture, and looked Merkava in the eye. She was young, probably no more than three years out of the academy. Chestnut hair in what could only be described as a 'pineapple-head' hairdo went well to create the illusion of height for her vertically challenged stature. The striking thing about her would be the blood red eyes. No, they weren't bloodshot from the sleepless night. Neither were they the 'ordinary' red of the Ishballans. They were naturally _blood_ red, and could easily be mistaken for the living crimson fluid if not seen properly. She carried with her left arm, a loaded clipboard. "So tell me, Captain. What exactly is your reason for calling me here?"

The 68th Investigations Battalion was reputed for… well, it wasn't really one to stand out. Simply put, it was just one of the several hundred battalions under the Investigations Division. In fact, it was so unexceptional that the reason for it being assigned to such a task as searching Central Amphitheater for any clues was so simple a first grader could comprehend it: Northrop had brought out a list of units, closed his eyes, and pointed at a random detachment on it. The 68th just so happened to be the one that he ended up pointing at. While it wasn't really customary for the general to do so whenever assigning units to gather intelligence, the prospect of searching a site like the Amphitheater seemed so pointless that he decided to throw all caution to the wind and let blind luck decide who would handle it.

"Sir, as of thirty minutes ago, we found something I thought you would find interesting."

Interesting, eh? Northrop's eyebrow shot up. _I never thought there would be anything interesting to find here…_ "Really now?"

"Yes sir! If the General would please be so kind as to follow me?" Merkava about faced at her superior's nod of acknowledgement. In an apparent hurry, she led the general into the megastructure and crossed the lobby into what was labeled as 'Hallway 3'. The captain stopped at a certain area not too far from a set of stairs, where she stood, nervously scanning the somewhat damaged walls and ceiling as if wary of a cave-in. She pointed at the little surprise that lay before them. "We found them in this condition, sir. It's… strange, isn't it?"

Northrop adjusted his glasses before stooping down for a closer examination. These men were dressed in full battle gear, and were apparently on their way somewhere, probably to intercept the Führer before he left for the reception center. Spent casings were scattered all over the floor, and there were several bullet holes in the walls and ceiling. Ballistics was going to have a field day over this, alright. Stemming from the Lieutenant Führer's report on the ILF hitmen found in the ruins of the reception center, one could easily see that these men were apparently with them. The gear, attire, and weapons all matched both ILF profiles, and the profiles of the corpses from the other site.

Clearly, the forensics team had yet to arrive, as there was no sign whatsoever of any evidence collection attempt. Nevertheless, the general had spent his much earlier days in forensics, before securing a transfer to Intelligence and taking his career from there. He was no newcomer to the science. However, as SOP called for, he wasn't with Investigations, and thus, was technically unauthorized to touch something at a crime scene. Producing a pair of latex gloves and snapping them onto his hands, he gave the captain a questioning look. "Permission to inspect the bodies, Captain?"

Merkava, despite being the most senior Investigations Officer on site, was nevertheless dumbstruck by the fact that a _Lieutenant General_ was asking for _her_ permission. In her addled state, she nodded rather absently. "Y… yes sir. Permission granted."

The Chief of Intelligence smiled as he acknowledged, and began to undress one of the corpses. "Are you sure the MP's didn't just forget to file a report about gunning these people down?"

"Yes sir. I've already triple-checked all patrols that were present last night."

"I see…" Northrop fiddled around with one of the corpses, carefully analyzing what he saw, all the while making auditory notes to himself. "Judging from the status of rigor mortis, the first subject, and assumedly the entire group, is at least five hours dead. Severe blunt force trauma in two styles can be determined here: first, subject seems to have suffered multiple blows at random points – assume a violent attacker with a powerful hand-to-hand fighting style. Second, subject seems to have suffered multiple blows in the form of what is perhaps a shockwave, or multiple shockwaves, judging from the multiple concentric circle patterns of tissue damage." He stopped to remove the Kevlar helmet; the goggles, cracked, had apparently been pierced. Merkava looked on, amazed by his analytical and deductive skill.

The helm came off, revealing a rather unsightly image of an Ishballan man in his late twenties, eyes still open from an unexpected death. Or rather, the remaining eye was open. The other was an empty socket with scattered brain matter all over it. Somebody had shot him in the head. This efficient style of termination was certainly contrary to the earlier assumption that the attacker used hand-to-hand. That could only mean one thing. "Gunshot wound to the right eye, performed with astounding aim. Cause of death is now rather uncertain. Nevertheless, we can now conclude that there were at least two assailants, and, judging by his expression, these assailants had taken them by surprise."

"Sir… there's one more thing-"

Northrop's raised hand stopped her in midsentence. "Yes, Captain. I know… the most obvious detail about these bodies… is that they have all been completely stripped of their bones. I can tell, however, that the bone drain was performed _after_ they were shot."

"How can you tell, sir?"

"You wouldn't shoot somebody if you could just suck out their bones. The loss of any form of support would cause the body to come crashing down, crushing all your vital organs before your heart could even beat. No, the bone sucking was performed _after_ they died." Northrop stood up, removed the gloves, and placed them into one of his pockets. The odd kind of fear he could see in the captain's crimson eyes prompted him to ask, "Is there a problem, Captain?"

"Sir… what if… what if the one who took their bones…"

"You're not going to talk about that silly Bone Vampire story, are you, Captain?"

Merkava opened her mouth as if to speak, then paused for a few moments, as if being unable to decide on what to say. "Sir, I'm just saying… Every folktale in this country has at least _some_ kind of root in reality."

"But honestly, Merkava. The Bone Vampire? That's nothing but a ghost story, fabricated to scare children out of staying up late at night!" He lied. Northrop was well aware of that possibility. Over the years of his working with Intelligence, recon patrols all over the country, from small-time provinces to the big cities, all reported similar findings every once in awhile. While he wasn't 100 percent convinced as of yet, it was very possible. Only the Gate knew what horrifying alchemic mishap could produce such a monstrosity as described in the stories. Whatever the case, until somebody actually reported _seeing_ the creature, he would continue to remain skeptical. So far, only boneless corpses have been found, and anybody with half a brain could suck the bones out of somebody, and not necessarily alchemically.

Merkava surrendered. Apparently, the General wasn't going to give in to her suggested possibility. "What do you want us to do now, sir?"

"What else? Somebody who isn't on our side killed these ILF soldiers. This brings me to conclude that there is a third party somehow involved in this mystery… And one of the things I hate the most about this case is that we have no idea who they are. This investigation needs an operational command that's higher than the battalion level. I'm assigning Brigadier General Hughes to lead the investigation on this third party after he finishes dealing with his… family matters."

"And in the meantime, sir?"

"Do your job, Captain!" Northrop started to head back to his car, Merkava following close behind. "Get Forensics in here as soon as humanly possible! Dust the place for fingerprints, footprints, shoe prints. Sweep the area for hair samples, blood samples, maybe lost articles like missing teeth or something. Have Ballistics cross-reference all these empty casings with every firearm and ammunition dealer we know! If we can find the one who bought them, then great! General Hughes is not a man to waste his time, Captain. When he takes over an already ongoing investigation, he expects something to have already been done in his absence. Myself, I have bigger things to handle." He turned to face her one last time, adjusting his glasses before checking his watch. "In fact, I'm already pretty late for a very important meeting. Don't fail us, Captain. We're counting on you." The general returned her salute and boarded his emerald green mini, driving off into the sunrise.

* * *

A person once asked, how big is the average general officer's office at Central Headquarters? Would he have been at Major General John Henry Armstrong's office the morning of September 2nd, 2006, the answer would be staring him right in the face. The average general officer's office at Central Headquarters would be too small to contain all commissioned State Alchemists. The flood of blue, with some speckles of other colors was overwhelming, to say the least. In fact, General Armstrong's office wasn't even large enough to contain _half_ of the State Alchemists. Several dozen were crammed into the space in front of his desk, while over a hundred more were crowding the hallway outside the room.

It was a beehive of noise, so to speak. Although each was giving out different words, or maybe even different sets of words, those in the myriad of researchers were all saying the same thing, that they were all being unnecessarily interrupted. Some said that they were half-finished, others were allegedly on the verge of some major alchemic breakthrough, while others were supposedly starting a new leg in their research.

Seeing as the incessant chatter had long surpassed the boiling point of quiet reasoning, Armstrong made his move. The general hopped onto his desk, imposing 6'6 frame causing some of those at the front row to instinctively back off. "People!" he shouted with a passion, drawing and raising one of his hammers into the air, apparently for the dramatic effect, "I implore you all to calm down! So maybe His Excellency was unwise in ordering _all_ State Alchemists to come here this morning!" Now if the Führer had ordered them to go to _his_ office, this number wouldn't be such a problem. After all, there was much space in the waiting room, while the office itself was more than enough to accommodate every State Alchemist in commission. "But an order is an order, so here we now stand!"

A pause for even more dramatic effect, before the burly general spun that hammer and returned it to the sheath on his back. "Due to the nature of this assignment, I will not be burdening you researchers with needless requisition of attendance! You may submit your research to me during the recertification. Dismissed."

At this command, three fourths of the swarm of people exited the cramped space of the office and nearby hallway, the members still holding similar impressions of how one simple order had wasted hours of valuable research time for nothing. The quarter of State Alchemists that remained were all evidently commissioned for reasons apart from research. These were the combatant State Alchemists, taken into the military to serve a militaristic purpose.

"As you may have guessed, I have begun to make use of a filter-and-selection method that has been passed along the Armstrong line for generations!" the general struck yet another pose on his desk, surrounding air twinkling with a tinge of pink. "And now, we continue, as I need a smaller base from which to choose from! Those of you who have qualms with taking up a mission on a Saturday may leave!"

Those who believed that this set of orders was bothersome, or perhaps promised family one outing or another, audibly grumbled as they strolled out of the office. Some of them seemed intent on venting their anger on the building, or perhaps, Armstrong or the Führer, depending on how bad their mood was. After all, Saturday was a common day off for many State Alchemists, particularly the combatants, who didn't really need to do 24/7 research, and weren't really needed to do any fighting unless called upon. One was heard to have said some things so profane that he was immediately restrained by military police, due to violating one language censorship law or another. At the end of the day, that was one of the things that counted, after all.

Out of all this, only a dozen remained, a dozen who had no problems with having some action on a Saturday, or simply had so much free time on their hands that practically every day was a day off. Slacking off in offices was a common thing for combatant State Alchemists, as they really didn't have much to do, with this being peacetime and all. The ILF was S2's problem, after all. Those who weren't privileged to offices generally wandered around aimlessly if they had nothing to do.

"Very well then! We now move on to the final portion of the filter-and-selection! I need only _six_ of you for today's mission! Step forth, those of you whose minds have been made up on participating!"

The first response was practically immediate. Taking two huge steps forward from the rank of State Alchemists was one rather familiar face, though her features now shined with boundless enthusiasm for some activity that didn't involve listening to boring speeches. Gold eyes sparkled like the crab nebula, and even that silly yellow hair ribbon looked like it was in one of its better days. A SIG P229 twirled playfully in her right hand. The mile-wide grin broke up as its owner issued a statement. "Elisi Mustang, the Firestorm Alchemist, volunteers for this assignment! So who do I shoot?"

"Well, yes, Firestorm…" Armstrong scratched his head. "There will be some shooting, just… not yet."

The marveling enthusiasm suddenly disappeared. An expression of shocked disappointment settled onto her facial features. "Not… yet?"

A hand snaked up from behind to grasp Elisi's left shoulder. Stepping up beside her, raven hair looking like it had gone through some serious treatment, as shown by its glossy sheen, amber eyes reflecting that glow in their sense of determination, that ever-cynic ice queen addressed the general. "Somebody's gotta make sure this gun nut doesn't go out of control, sir," she smirked. "And as usual, that burden falls on me." Her other hand shortly lingered on the golden ornament around her neck. "Dominique Midas, the Goldfist Alchemist, volunteers for this assignment."

"You two again, eh?" Armstrong shrugged. "Well, at least it's no longer like your first mission together," he remarked, nodding as his mind went back to reminisce that particular day. It was a dreary Sunday, less than a week after the State Alchemist Exam… "Ahem. Now then… I need four more volunteers."

"Hey, count me in," a gruff, one could say, almost animalistic, voice said. Its owner, a man with his hair in a lime green ponytail, left the single file behind and landed next to Dom. This mission obviously had something to do with what happened at the Amphitheater last night, and something was telling him that the Führer's little swordplay show was just a teaser of more action to come. "It's been much too long since my last unsealing. The… uhh… _things_ are getting quite agitated." He flashed a grin at the general. "As long as _they_ get to crack some skulls, though…"

"Oh, don't worry, Werewolf," the general reassured, "There will be plenty of skulls to crack." He was well aware of the fact that if Lycanthi didn't allow his seal to rest and recharge, bad, bad things were going to transpire. A guttural growl disturbed the ambience of the office.

Viktor rubbed his stomach, a hint of embarrassment on his face. "Sorry about that. Didn't have time to grab anything to eat."

"Here," Armstrong tossed the man a bag. "This should do for now."

Lycanthi reached in and quietly gobbled up a handful. "Pretty good! What's this, anyway? Butter Cookies? Chocolate Chip? Oatmeal Raisin?"

"Dog Buiscits, Major Lycanthi," the Strong Hammer Alchemist said matter-of-factly, "A recipe that has been passed along the Armstrong line for generations!" The nearby air suddenly shimmered with carnation pink sparkles.

Viktor blinked once and helped himself to another handful.

The next man to step forward was… different. That is to say, this particular State Alchemist was dressed in black leather and jeans, rather than the uniform. Atop his head rested a black beret. In general, he was dressed in black, almost as if emphasizing the irony of him being, for lack of a better word, black. "Hang on to yo' hats, coz Black Token Alchemist DBM is joinin' in on the fun! Oh yeah!"

He was soon followed by a man whose height came close to rivaling the general's great stature. He too was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, and by all accounts, looked more like some kind of biker gang member than a State Alchemist. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes. "Arnold Guvner, the Fullmail Alchemist, will participate in the assignment."

"Are you sure about that?" Armstrong raised an eyebrow.

"Yah."

"That leaves us with one last slot! Who among you is to volunteer for the job?"

Surprisingly enough, none of the remaining seven stepped forward. There seemed to be some kind of hesitation. What was it exactly? Considering, this motley crew was somewhat… negatively reputed for one reason or another. Elisi was the daughter and, in a sense, successor, of the retired Lieutenant General Philip Mustang, who became notorious for his pastime of torching subordinates for various trivial, and in some cases, nonsensical, reasons. The issue, of course, wasn't that she acted like her old man, but rather, the fact that she was worse than him.

Dominique wasn't a very likeable character either. Thanks to her highly sarcastic attitude, nobody who wasn't closely acquainted to her would like working with what some had come to call the "Ice Queen Alchemist". Not that she had many close friends, anyway. Barring Elisi and Viktor, there wasn't really anybody else she would consider a friend.

Viktor, more widely known as the Werewolf Alchemist, was especially notorious for mauling, shredding, tearing, and generally killing anybody within his immediate area should he decide to completely release his inner beast. Working with him was not only a calculated risk. For many State Alchemists, working with the Werewolf Alchemist was tantamount to suicide. The fact that he looked terrifying enough as a man only added fuel to the fire. Every now and then, he would growl, or maybe bare some fangs. There was record of a certain State Alchemist who ran away, screaming at the top of his lungs, because he thought that Lycanthi, who had appeared in his beast form on a mission, was some kind of new chimera developed by the enemy.

Douglas Bradley "Doogie/DB" Montgomery might have been a pro when it came to throwing knives, but he was an Uzi aficionado. Ironically enough, his aim with firearms was lacking, if not completely nonexistent. Combined with his worship of the Spray-n-Pray god, this was a very bad thing for anybody who might be unfortunate enough to be on the same battlefield as him, regardless of which side he took. The Black Token Alchemist held the state military record for causing the highest number of friendly fire casualties, and this number was still rising. Despite all this, he somehow remained in service.

Arnie Guvner, the Fullmail Alchemist, was only called in when they needed some heavy firepower. The thing is, his body was made entirely of automail, any part of which he could transmute into whatever firearm he could think of. This has resulted in him becoming little more than a walking, talking weapons platform. Columns of guns could usually be seen to burst out of his organic disguise, pointing in just about every direction, and releasing ungodly amounts of ammunition. It was totally understandable why nobody wanted to work with him.

Armstrong massaged his nose bridge. By some bizarre act of fate, these… misfits of the military had somehow all volunteered to join the operation. As a result, none of the other combatants wanted in with them. Their being reluctant, if not downright afraid, to participate, was completely understandable. These five fighting side by side would be the equivalent of transmuting five sticks of dynamite into five pounds of C-4. The destructive potential increased more than tenfold. "In that case, I shall _choose_ the sixth combatant from among you, using a technique that has been-"

"Not ssso fassst, General Armssstrong," a raspy voice said. Out from behind the remaining rank of State Alchemists slithered a large python, which coiled up right next to the wall. Strangely enough, the snake was apparently _wearing_ uniform. Had it eaten a soldier lately? Even stranger, was the fact that his kind of animal could only be found in far off forests, if not within the highly secure confines of Central Zoo. So how then did it get here? Moreover, how did it get into the building without getting shot into Swiss Cheese?

Elisi immediately exploded into a blur of action, shouting something involving profanities, the word 'snake', and the word 'office', while cocking her pistol and squeezing off a few shots, much to the irritation of the snake, which only hissed menacingly at her, as the shots all bounced off its body. One of the bullets ricocheted off something metallic in one of the reptile's uniformed pockets, zinging past Armstrong, who easily dodged it, probably with the help of some other ancient technique, before embedding itself into the wall. Upon closer inspection, out of the pocket jutted a metallic chain, which could only have been attached to…

"A State Alchemist," the general said in deadpan, upon arriving at the conclusion. "A very interesting trick. Now if you would be so kind as to reveal your true form?"

The snake hissed again, before it contorted itself into a fleshy mass confined within the uniform. After a few moments of twisting, a full-sized man, perfectly fitting said uniform, emerged. Long, black hair went down his back, crowning a rather pale, serpentine face. As a man, he even looked like a snake. Glaring at the now gawking Firestorm Alchemist, he said, "Fortunately for you, that ssspeciesss wasss the Xingessse Tank Python, known for being resssissstant to anything short of a tank shell." To Armstrong, "Artemisss Herppe, the Winding Sssnake Alchemissst, volunteersss for the asssssignment."

Armstrong nodded, procuring a roster of all known State Alchemists. "Herppe… Herppe… Herppe… AHA!" Armstrong stabbed a portion of the sheet with his finger in a 'eureka' moment, before furrowing his eyebrows. "Hmm… it says here, Winding Snake, that you are a researcher. This assignment is not for you."

"Oh come now, General," Herppe lazily fished the article in question from his pocket, dangling it like a pendant as though to hypnotize the large man. "Thisss watch entitlesss me to perform sssuch dutiesss, am I not right? Besssidesss, none of thessse othersss ssseem to like the idea of working with thessse volunteersss."

"You have a point there." Again, the burly general nodded. "It is decided then! Major Herppe will be participating in this operation with the other volunteers. The rest of you may leave." Sighs of relief erupted from the other seven State Alchemists as they marched out of the office, chatting all the way. Armstrong returned his gaze to the motley crew of six. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please follow me, the briefing room is this way."

* * *

An emerald green mini stumbled its way out of the highway exit, making two rights, and a few lefts at several predetermined intersections. It looped around buildings, under bridges, and crossed several other uninteresting landmarks until it finally fell under the shadow of the pristine marble structure that was Central Headquarters. Passing the front gate and completely ignoring the sentry stationed there, it made one last right to the officers' car park, getting its just salutes as it waited for the MP to raise the bar and lower the spikes. The small vehicle finally ambled its way to a reserved slot and took aim. Unsatisfied with the first try, it shifted to reverse and backed out, took aim once again, and retried to park. Still disappointed by its imperfect parking, it proceeded to repeat this process five or six more times before its engine finally died.

The lone occupant almost tripped as he swung the door open and jumped out, carrying several folders in his arms. Lieutenant General Nelson Northrop placed the folders on the roof of his car to dust his uniform, before taking them again and calmly strolling out of the parking lot, into the main gate. On the way, he conveniently stepped into a puddle that until that moment, had remained on his ignore list. With one boot and lower pants leg somewhat damp, he marched down the hallway until he reached a briefing room, stopping to check the voices if it was the right one. He never could seem to find the right briefing room on the first try. That seemed to be the paradox with the man who ran Intelligence.

"First of all, this is Colonel Breda, the Commanding Officer for Echo Brigade of the SOS. His men will be assisting you on the mission." That was General Armstrong's voice, alright. The SOS – Special Operations Service – was the State Military's flagship Special Forces Division. S2 itself was only a part of this formation, known officially as the SOS's Delta Brigade. While S2 specialized in counterterrorist activities, Echo Brigade specialized in urban combat, making use of its own fleet of APC's, IFV's, and airships; a perfect choice for the operation. "As you all know, last night, two attempts were made on the Führer's life - one by the ILF, and another by an intelligence officer, the late Captain James Huey- yes Firestorm?"

Northrop continued to listen in for the right moment, ear still pressed against the oak doors.

"Why do we have to work with Echo Brigade? Isn't this supposed to be S2's job?"

"Yes, about that," Armstrong's voice replied, "As the ILF plot has already been on our radar for some time, Colonel Lockheed has gone off to personally lead S2 in cracking down on several of the cells suspected to have fueled the fire for last night's attack. As such, S2 is completely occupied. You will have to make do with this SOS Brigade for the operation. Furthermore, these cells are none of our concern."

Northrop could imagine the young Mustang frowning at the answer. "I have been briefed via radio by our Chief Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant General Northrop-" That was his cue. The door creaked open, and the intelligence officer stepped inside, as though fate could not have had more impeccable timing.

"Oh dear, I hope I'm not late or anything," he apologized. That traffic was a real killer. Though he seemed unaware of his status, he had a pretty good idea that he was right on time, judging from what he had heard through the door.

Armstrong was the first to snap into a salute, starting a chain reaction in which each person stood up from his or her chair, and followed the Strong Hammer Alchemist's example. "Of course not, sir! I was just about to start the briefing myself!"

"That's good, General Armstrong," Northrop walked up to the larger man and acknowledged the salutes. "At ease, people! This isn't boot camp! Now General Armstrong, I understand that you were just about to begin. Please continue where you left off."

"Yes sir!" Armstrong fixed his composure. "As I was saying, I have been briefed earlier by General Northrop here, that this operation we shall be undertaking is more focused on the incident involving Captain Huey, as S2 is already handling the ILF incident. General Northrop will handle the details..." He turned to his superior. "Sir?"

"Thank you, General Armstrong." Northrop circled the table, depositing a folder in front of each person. "If you would please turn your handouts to page one, we can begin." The motley crew complied. "Captain James Huey was with Intelligence, and apparently went mad last night, attempting to kill the Führer. I'm sure you all know that much by now. He was prematurely recalled from his most recent leave, due to the State of State Emergency requiring all able members of the military to return to active duty. Whatever the case, he returned a day late or so, which brings us to speculation."

"Of what, exactly?" Dominique coolly inquired. "That he'd been meeting with somebody?"

"That's possible, Goldfist, but highly unlikely."

"Really now?"

"Yes. You see, thanks to the autopsy we'd performed on his eh… leftovers… we were able to ascertain the presence of high quantities of a foreign substance in his blood – a powerful narcotic drug that that renders the user, or victim, if you prefer, highly susceptible, if not totally vulnerable, to the powers of suggestion."

"You mean like a hypnotic drug?" Elisi's eyebrow shot up with interest.

"Yes, Firestorm. You can call it that." Northrop continued. "Furthermore, videos of the incident – both from civilians in the audience and security cameras – show that he alluded to somebody he called the 'Boss Man', who he claims had revealed to him the Führer's alleged hidden agenda. Personally, I think it's a load of crock, but that's just my opinion. He might be hiding something that even I haven't sniffed out yet," he laughed at his own joke. "Anyway, based on the evidence at hand, we can therefore conclude that this 'Boss Man' is the one who had him drugged. Please turn to page two."

Like an obedient bunch of new recruits, they flipped the pages of their handouts in complete unison. On the second page were the dossiers of two men. One was an Ishballan in the typical military getup worn by the ILF. The quality of this was of course, the usual black and white distanced surveillance shot, since they would never get him to stand and smile (or frown) in front of the cameras anyway. The other was a mug shot of a man in the traditional State Military uniform, complete with a bio. His shoulder rank badges identified him as a Colonel. "From what Intel we were able to gather, we have managed to determine that these two men are the most likely to be Huey's 'Boss Man'. First off would be Colonel Peter Hughes; works with Investigations like his older brother, Brigadier General Ronald Hughes. About that… I received a memo just this morning, that, due to the untimely passing of the Investigations Division Chief, General Cobra, during last night's attack on the reception center, I have been temporarily designated Chief of Investigations."

"A great tragedy indeed!" Armstrong began weeping visibly, the nearby air wavering as though struck with steam. "General Cobra was a good friend of mine, a man truly dedicated to his work!"

The Strong Hammer Alchemist got his act back together when Northrop cleared his throat. "Back on topic, Colonel Hughes has recently been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia. He believes that the government was involved in a conspiracy that led to the assassination of his grandfather, Brigadier General Maes Hughes. Perhaps you've heard of him?" There was no visible reaction from anybody that might have hinted at having even heard the name. "No? Anyway, this has led to anti-government tendencies with the Colonel. This could easily be a motive for having somebody kill the Führer. Furthermore, the whole story about His Excellency's hidden agenda might well be one of his delusions. Evidence to back up this hypothesis rests in his own unit. Hughes' Battalion, 11th Investigations, recently confiscated an illegal shipment of several chemicals, which, when combined in a lab, could be used to synthesize our magical hypnotic drug. As of two days ago, he still has several barrels of each chemical 'unaccounted for'."

"So then it's possible that Colonel Hughes has been planning to assassinate the Führer," Lycanthi surmised, biting into another one of his dog biscuits. These Armstrongs were truly wonders at baking. "And used a fellow soldier, nonetheless. Is there any further proof to strengthen this accusation though?"

"Colonel Hughes has publically expressed his sympathy for Huey's attempt and has been placed under State Arrest for doing so. The 11th Investigations has also been brought into custody and is currently being investigated. We're handling that area."

"So then why are we needed at all?" The Werewolf Alchemist growled, already hungry for a chance to launch himself straight into the fray of battle.

"I'm getting to that." Northrop motioned at the second dossier. "Here, we have the ILF leader known only as 'Scrad'. We've tried time and time again to get our hands of this fellow, but unfortunately, he has always managed to slip into the safety of provinces that support the ILF's cause. Now, our informants tell us that Scrad has recently come to Central in order to supervise three active ILF cells that, for some reason, have remained off S2's hit list. We don't know how high up the ILF Chain of Command Scrad is, but if he has authority to simultaneously supervise three cells, then that means that he must be pretty high. It also goes with his style – the man likes to use chemicals in his attacks in any way imaginable. General Armstrong?"

"Of course…" Armstrong stood and offered Northrop his seat, still wiping his teary eyes with a handkerchief. "This is the mission – we shall be raiding these three cells currently being supervised by Scrad. Hopefully, he will be in one of them when we strike. The six volunteer State Alchemists are to be divided into three groups of two, each group to lead one platoon of Echo Brigade's troops in the raid, along with each one's respective platoon leaders. These two State Alchemists will serve as first and second-in-command respectively. Since you're all Majors, three of you will be brevetted to Lieutenant Colonel based on who you are to be paired with, and your experience in comparison to your partner's. Colonel Breda?"

Breda rose from his seat to give the specifics on his boys. "You'll be working with Company One of First Battalion Echo Brigade. They're the best men I got, so don't underestimate them. Since Company One has four platoons and there are only three cells, Delta Platoon will serve as the command and coordination unit whilst Platoons Alpha through Charlie will execute the raid. General Northrop, General Armstrong, and myself will by accompanying Delta Platoon. I'll introduce you to the platoon leaders later." The colonel returned to his previous position.

"So who's paired up with who?"

Armstrong regained his lost vigor and got to work. "While you were busy listening to Colonel Breda, I have decided the pairings via a matchup system that has been passed along the Armstrong line for generations! And this is what it has decided: Alpha Platoon shall be led by Elisi Mustang and Artemis Herppe. Due to the fact that Major Herppe is a researcher, and has no recorded combat experience, Major Mustang shall serve as the unit commander and will be brevetted to Lieutenant Colonel."

Elisi broke into a large grin, one that shone brighter than Venus on a hot summer night. Not only was she getting a temporary promotion, she was also getting to _lead_ something! And the best part of all, was that no cynic ice queen was going to criticize any of her moves!

Apparently having sensed these sentiments in her friend, Dominique shot up from her seat, expression on her face one of protest. "Woah, woah, woah! Wait a minute here, sir! You're pairing her up with some sissy researcher and not me? With all due respect, General, Special Forces or not, they're all going to get themselves _killed_ out there! Elisi's a loose cannon and needs _me_ to keep her from bringing the house down!"

Armstrong made good use of his imposing figure, and came up in front of the Goldfist Alchemist, towering over her form. While it was enough to scare your average State Alchemist, Dom wasn't your average State Alchemist and stood her ground, staring the large man in the eye. "Are you questioning the effectiveness of this matchup technique that has been passed along the Armstrong line for generations, Goldfist?"

"Well, since you put it that way…" Dominique thought for a moment. Armstrong's techniques had never failed him before… yet she couldn't help but get the feeling that even with something so reliable, Elisi's unpredictable nature would prevail in the end, leading to some sort of disaster. "I guess not…" She sat back down and crossed her arms. "But don't blame me for the friendly fire casualties."

"All good then!" Armstrong returned to his current task of handing out pairs. "Bravo Platoon shall be led by Dominique Midas and Viktor Lycanthi. As Major Lycanthi is the senior and more experienced of the two, he shall serve as the unit commander and thus be brevetted to Lieutenant Colonel."

For a moment, the beasts broke loose, causing the Werewolf Alchemist to express his glee in a howl that shook the whole office, if not the whole building. "Eh… whoops. Sorry. Won't happen again."

"Charlie Platoon will fall under the command of Douglas Bradley Montgomery and Arnold Guvner. As Major Montgomery is the more streetwise of the two, as well as having more experience despite Major Guvner's seniority, Montgomery will be brevetted to Lieutenant Colonel."

"A'ight!" Montgomery, who'd been silent the whole time, stood from his seat tossed his beret into the air, catching it as he pointed a finger at his partner. "In yo face, tin man!"

Guvner's response was simple. "Yah."

"The first cell, Alpha Platoon's target, is an alleged private resort on the beach of Estonia Lake, to the western outskirts of Central. It is heavily guarded and has been known to be the ILF's central interrogation facility in the region. The second cell, which falls to Bravo Platoon, is a high-rise in mid-town Central. This high-rise is known to have its foundations rigged to explode upon being compromised, so your first priority is to dispose of the explosives before apprehending Scrad. Finally, Charlie Platoon is to attack the third cell, located in a warehouse in Downtown Central. It is quite possibly the most dangerous of the three, as we have no idea what it holds. Delta Platoon, as Colonel Breda said earlier, will serve as command and control, and shall be stationed outside at Central Headquarters' Parade Grounds. State in contact at all times, and report to us every fifteen minutes. Remember, the primary objective is to capture Scrad. Ensure that we succeed. If there are no further questions, then let Operation: Trinity Hunters commence!"

TBC…

* * *

Fizzy's Notes: Hey, guess what! The chapter's over! But wait! There's more! You don't have to call within the next thirty minutes. All you have to scroll down past Mushroom's notes (if he has any), and you'll be treated to… a bunch of bios. We worked really hard on these, so could you please be kind enough to at least browse them? Thank ye kindly.

Mushroom's Notes: As promised, the long note is here. Well, you've just read thru the after-party of the speech, and the briefing. Unfortunately for you people, the raids won't be showing up until chapter five! In accordance with the anime, we're gonna have a couple of flashback chapters! Miss Midas is the main character, so we're gonna be reading in on Goldfist's past, from youth to her first mission. If you want the chapters to make an appearance earlier, review, damn it! Just as a tiny teaser for you…

"_I found it, Samantha! I've unlocked the true secret of Gold Alchemy!" Gregor laid his hands on the circle on the floor. A veritable explosion of alchemic energy coursed through the array, bright golden light filling the room and temporarily blinding Samantha and Gregor. When the light ebbed away, however, the pile of junk lead in the middle of the circle was unchanged._

"_Wha- NO! IT WAS PERFECT! THE ARRAY WAS PERFECT! IT WAS PERFE-" Gregor was cut off as Samantha stalked over to him and slapped him soundly on the face._

"_Listen to yourself, Gregor! Our son is dying upstairs, and your attention is on that goddamn array of yours! What the hell is wrong with you?!?" Samantha screeched. Gregor grabbed her arm angrily._

"_I've told you time and again Samantha-" But that was as far as Gregor got. A spark of golden alchemic energy jumped from his hands and into her arm. To both Gregor and Samantha's horror, her arm started to turn into gold…_

If you want to be reading that chapter, review! Damn it, review! Yes, I am repeating myself… Now, onto the bios!

Name: Dominique Midas (likes to be called 'Dom')

Gender: F

Age: 18

Occupation: State Alchemist

Race: Human  
Hometown: Xenotime

State Alchemist Title: Goldfist Alchemist

Rank: Major

Appearance:  
Imagine Raven from the Teen Titans, only taller, and wearing the uniform. Oh, and with black hair and amber eyes. Oh, and without the gray skin.

Gadgets/Equipment:

-State Alchemist Silver Watch

- One (1) Ornate Necklace made of Solid Gold

- One (1) Pair Bracelets made of Solid Gold

Alchemic Skills:  
Her expertise lies in the transmutation of precious metals, especially gold. She is skilled in altering the molecular density and reworking the molecular structure. (i.e. strengthening the molecular bonds alchemically to remove/increase gold's malleability)

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
Highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat, as well as use of a whip and gauntlets of solid gold.

Bio: As she is the central character, her story will be revealed in the fic.

Quote: -cracks a whip-

Name: Elisi Mustang

Gender: F

Age: 19

Occupation: State Alchemist

Race: Human  
Hometown: Central

State Alchemist Title: Firestorm Alchemist

Rank: Major

Appearance:  
It can be noted that she stands several inches lower than Roy Mustang, has dark brown waist-length hair, golden eyes, and a fairly nice build. Wears State Military uniform, along with a bright yellow hair ribbon. Can usually be seen smirking smugly, if not grinning predatorily, for reasons that only she can understand.

Gadgets/Equipment: Max of 4.

- Silver Pocketwatch

- Dual Pistols - Beretta 96 and SIG P229, both with Flame Alchemy Circles engraved into their handgrips

- Ignition Cloth Gloves with Flame Alchemy Circles embroidered in the backhand sides

Alchemic Skills:

Elisi can perform Flame Alchemy just as well as her predecessors, but detests its use as she views the "Roy Mustang Snap of Doom" Technique as boring and unoriginal. She instead specializes in using the very bullets fired from her guns as a means of getting her message across, transmuting her live ammunition so that they acquire the properties of incendiary, napalm, and even high explosive rounds. The latter of the three would be her favorite.

Non-Alchemic Skills:

Elisi's hyperactive personality places her in a very odd position. Despite the fact that she's a crack shot with any firearm, she lacks the patience to actually do any aiming, and has often been accused of operating under a 'shoot-first-aim-later' principle. When she DOES manage to take aim, however, it's a guaranteed hit.

Bio: (being the second central character, her bio has been shortened for the sake of revealing more in the fic)

Daughter of the notorious Third Flame Alchemist, Lieutenant General Philip Mustang, Elisi was raised having high expectations for herself for becoming the latest in the bloodline to become a State Alchemist, which she achieved the year before, with some difficulty. She is smug and cocky, just like her predecessors. Add to this a large dose of hyperactivity, some apparently weird thoughts, and a trigger-happy attitude that has earned her such monikers as 'psycho gun nut' and 'gun fetishist', and you have a formula for impeding disaster. The only people she stands down to while on a sugar rush are either the Führer or Viktor Lycanthi – the Werewolf Alchemist. Is best friends with Dom.

Quote: "Mess with me, and I'll do more than just shoot you..."

Name: Viktor Lycanthi

Gender: Male

Age: 25

Occupation: State Alchemist

Race: Chimera/Human

Hometown: Central

State Alchemist Title: Werewolf Alchemist

Rank: Major

Appearance:

Human Form(just give him the uniform):

IMGhttp:// i106. vsav005.png/IMG

Wolf Form:

IMGhttp:// i106. greenwolf.png/IMG

Gadgets/Equipment:

1. Silver Medallion with an engraved alchemic circle, embedded into his chest because of an experiment gone wrong

2. Nunchakus (can't have a werewolf without nunchakus!)

3. Teh 1337 pocketwatch!

4. 12-inch switchblade

Alchemic Skills:

Lycanthi's alchemic skills cater to chimera alchemy and the like. He is exceptionally skilled at creating perfect chimeras from carnivorous animals.

Non-Alchemic Skills:

He is a skilled martial artist, carrying a black belt in ten different martial arts. He is also well-versed in using the nunchakus and the switchblade.

Bio: (being the third central character, his bio has been shortened. I don't know if we'll expand on his story in the fic, though… Mushroom likes him to be the mysterious badass guy.)

Not much is known about Viktor Lycanthi pre-State Alchemist time. The only known data about him is that he was born in Central, son of a well-to-do family. The real history starts with his post-State Alchemist Exam research. On becoming a State Alchemist, Lycanthi earned the name "Werewolf Alchemist" due to his expertise. Coincidentally enough, five years later, an experiment involving the supposed fusion between a timber wolf, a military attack dog, a cheetah, and a panther went horribly wrong, and he was forced to fuse himself to the beast to save his life, turning himself into a werewolf/dog/cheetah/panther chimera thing. He then engraved a sealing circle on a silver medallion and infused it into his chest, sealing the were-thing with alchemy. Whenever he activates the circle on his medallion, he unseals the were-thing, turning him into a real "dog" of the state.

Quote: "Can I tell you something? I smell dead people."

Name: Douglas Bradley "Doogie/DB" Montgomery

Gender: M

Age: 26

Occupation: State Alchemist

Race: Human

Hometown: Central (Ghetto No. 5)

State Alchemist Title: Black Token Alchemist

Rank: Major

Appearance:

He's black, and prefers to wear his black beret, even indoors. One of the few State Alchemists who doesn't wear uniform, he instead dresses in a black leather jacket, black shirt, black jeans, and black boots. Generally appears laid-back, with his brown, shoulder-length hair in dreadlocks.

Gadgets/Equipment: Max of 4.

- The Pocketwatch

- An assortment of Tokens from different types of metals, all colored black

- A pair of Uzis

Alchemic Skills:

DB transmutes tokens into various little things for various little purposes. The list includes: Skeleton keys, needles, pins, thumb tacks, push-knives, caltrops, staple wires, etc...

Non-Alchemic Skills:

An advocate of the spray-n-pray method, Doogie is an expert at spending entire magazines' worth of ammunition in mere seconds and not hitting anybody at all no matter how many bullets he had. When he gets really serious, however, bullets will start hitting random people. Friendlies are not exempt, and neither is he. Because of this attitude, he somehow manages to get along with Elisi Mustang. He is also an expert knife thrower.

Bio:

Born in the ghettos of Central, Doogie was the son of a prominent gang lord who died before his fifth birthday. Raised himself alone and on the streets, he learned alchemy as a way of getting rich quick by scamming people. Unfortunately, he got in bad with the military police, but after a failed, although brilliant escape attempt, the military gave him amnesty in exchange for his services. (Military was a victim of the affirmative action movement...) After a short demonstration to the warden, he was recommended to take, and subsequently passed, that year's State Alchemist Exam. The 'Black' in his title is suspected to have multiple (presumably derogatory) meanings, aside from the fact that his tokens are black, namely, he is an ex-convict, and that he's dark skinned.

Quote: "Why _am _I the only black State Alchemist in the State Military? Ain't nobody else in 'ere black. And if y'all black, you got half an animal stickin' out o' yo head. Why don't you throw some cotton balls around on the ground and let me transmute them for you, 'mein Führer'?"

Name: Arnold "Arnie" Guvner

Gender: Male

Age: 45

Occupation: State Alchemist, former Automail Engineer for RushCo

Race: Soul Armor (his body is made entirely of automail)

State Alchemist Title: Fullmail Alchemist

Rank: Major

Appearance:  
Come on! The name's an obvious reference! Go figure. :P

Gadgets/Equipment:

- His full-automail body

Alchemic Skills:

Arnold has grown accustomed to transmuting his body parts into assorted firearms: autorifles, shotguns, SMG's, gatling guns, machine guns, flamethrowers, missile launchers, the works.

Non-Alchemic Skills:

Made of a high-tensile alloy, Arnold's body is highly resistant to crash damage, shock damage, getting shot, etc. Coupled with the fact that he has been into practicing his mobility and tenacity, he is formidable when it comes to melee combat.

Bio:

Formerly head engineer of RushCo Automail, RockMail's top competitor, he was in charge of developing a new kind of automail. However, an unprecedented accident came one day 22 years ago, in the form of a horrible, horrible explosion. When they pulled Guvner from the wreckage, he was more dead than alive. RockMail volunteered their newest development to rescue him: A revolutionary method of replacing the entire body with automail via Soul Transfer. When Arnie woke up, he was informed that he was now the ultimate soldier. Various circles engraved on his metal body allow him to transmute almost every part of his body into a firearm. He now serves under the military as the Fullmail Alchemist, Central's very own Robocop.

Quotes: "Yah."

Name: Artemis Herppe  
Gender: M

Age: 33

Occupation: State Alchemist

Race: Human

Hometown: An unspecified town in Xing

State Alchemist Title: Winding Snake Alchemist

Rank: Major

Appearance:  
Generally tall, lanky, with thin, snake-like face. Voldy with HAIR. Black, waist-length hair. He is effeminate.

Gadgets/Equipment:

- Pocketwatch

- Snakes... lots of snakes. Chimera snakes too.

Alchemic Skills:  
Herppe is known as the Winding Snake Alchemist for good reason. As a researcher, he is very well-versed in the creation of all kinds of serpentine chimeras, and is known to carry a bunch on his person at any given time. Furthermore, he is capable of transforming himself into eight-foot-tall variations of the snakes he can make. Because of this, many people believe him to be part chimera.

Non-Alchemic Skills:

Herppe is somewhat of a contortionist, capable of twisting his body into painful-looking positions with the skill of, pardon the bad pun, a snake.

Bio:

Though Amestrian by blood, Herppe was born and raised in a small town in Xing, particularly known for its assortment of wildlife. He grew up alongside these animals, taking a particular liking to snakes, in fact. As such, when he started to learn alchemy, his natural inclination towards the creepy crawlies resulted in a very specialized focus on snakes and reptiles. Through family connections, he secured himself a slot in the State Alchemist exam, which he passed by presenting a myriad of creatively crafted snake chimeras. Assumedly, the military wanted to use his creations for weapons or something like that, and assigned him to a secluded post in Central where he could continue his research undisturbed. He constantly creates new and interesting types of snake chimeras, more to keep himself entertained, than anything else. The military has never really used his creations for anything other than guinea pigs for testing weapons/poisons/whatever on, anyway.

Quote: "Hisssss..."

Name: Christopher Abrams  
Gender: M  
Age: 58  
Occupation: Führer of the State of Amestris, State Alchemist  
Race: Human  
Hometown: Resembool  
State Alchemist Title: Lightblade Alchemist  
Rank: Commander-in-Chief, Führer  
Appearance:  
Christopher Abrams is a man of stern composure, possessing a somewhat intimidating stature of 5'11, with a face hardened by years in the military. His thin white hair is consistently swept back into a neat do, a testament to his disciplined lifestyle. Icy blue eyes combined with a piercing gaze make His Excellency one of, if not the most intimidating of people in the military. He is always seen dressed in his full Führer regalia, complete with all his honors.

Gadgets/Equipment:  
- The Pocketwatch  
- A Silver Rapier of French-like design  
- A Common Household Flashlight, with a unique "Photic Alchemy" Circle engraved around the handle  
- A set of extra batteries

Alchemic Skills:  
Having spent some time in his youth studying in Prometheus, Abrams has an extensive understanding of physics. Coupled with Amestris' natural focus on alchemy, he is the only man alive known to be capable of transmuting fundamental particles. In particular, he specializes in manipulating photon intensity into a laser blade (which takes up an actual blade shape, instead of the tubular lightsaber blade) that can cut through just about anything. Due to this, other State Alchemists in his day jokingly referred to him as the "Killer Flashlight Alchemist".

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
The Führer is just as skilled a swordsman as King Bradley himself was. How this came to be is a mystery. Whatever the case, he is known to be capable of slashing things in half with nobody noticing that he had even drawn and, on some occasions, re-sheathed his sword (as in, things suddenly split in two without warning whenever he's around).

Bio:  
Führer Abrams was born to a little-known family in Resembool. By that time, what used to be a green pasture was now the corporate headquarters of a fast-rising automail company known as RockMail, founded by prodigy mechanic Winry Rockbell some two decades prior. Money had begun to heavily industrialize the town.

He had displayed a great interest in sword fighting, in which he trained fervidly without cease. At age fifteen, Abrams went overseas to Prometheus in the first and only foreign exchange program between the two countries, returning five years later with a greater enlightenment on the concepts of physics. He incorporated these concepts into his lessons when he began to study alchemy.

At age 25, he took the State Alchemist Exam, where the display of his ability to transmute something previously believed to be un-transmutable (that is, light), and easily defeating a volunteer swordsman with it during a demonstration, earned the panel's applause. The vote that year was unanimous. Christopher Abrams would be the only new State Alchemist to emerge from that exam - The Lightblade Alchemist - and go on to earn himself promotions to the top echelons of the Amestrian military.

Just as the parliamentary system finally gave in to corruption, General Christopher Abrams took it upon himself to clean up this mess. In 1985, he led a successful uprising, now known as the Purity Revolution, consisting of members of the military who shared his ideals, overthrowing the parliament and re-establishing the Führer system that had preceded it. Only this time, he was going to ensure that there would be no homunculus in the seat of power - by instating himself as Führer.

Despite his utter rigidity and no-nonsense attitude, Abrams is loved by the people, who until now, still regard him as the hero who put an end to a decaying political scene. This makes the administration of Amestris' current state as a military dictatorship _much_ easier, as the populace actually has no qualms with obeying somebody who they look up to.

Quote: "Get me a searchlight."

Name: John Henry Armstrong  
Gender: M  
Age: 42  
Occupation: State Alchemist, Chief State Alchemist Supervisor  
Race: Human  
Hometown: Central  
State Alchemist Title: Strong Hammer Alchemist  
Rank: Major General  
Appearance:  
Just like Alex Louis. Right down to the pink sparkles.

Gadgets/Equipment:  
- Pocketwatch  
- A Pair of Steel-Graphite Sledgehammers with Armstrong-crafted Alchemy Circles carved into the heads

Alchemic Skills:  
Armstrong is the present generation of the Armstrong Family's Alchemists. He utilizes alchemy passed down by his parents and ancestors, such as transmuting shrapnel and debris from impacts into spikes, balls, and the occasional posing self-portrait statue. In particular, these transmutations occur within the things that his hammerheads strike. Additionally, his preferred style of battle is to transmute his sledgehammers' composition into an iron core coated with a thick layer of black artificial diamond with which to smack things with, hence, the "Strong Hammer" in his title.

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
General Armstrong possesses an utter _plethora_ of talents and techniques that, as any red blooded Armstrong would put it, "have been passed along the Armstrong line for generations". In fact, he has his own contribution to this tradition, namely, he can wield a pair of sledgehammers (and use them for battle) just as easily as any skilled swordsman handles his blade.

Bio:  
John Henry Armstrong was born in the Armstrong Family's Palatial Estate. Here, he spent most of his youth studying the techniques that every Armstrong learns and carries to his grave. Just when you'd think that one would end up with a typical Armstrong, young John Henry, age 12, saw a steel driver hammering busily away at a railroad one afternoon. The rhythm was simply mesmerizing.

Eventually, he began what he has grown to call "Hammer Art" in serious study, along with the other things he was already occupied with, such as Armstrong Alchemy and the myriad of Armstrong Family Techniques that he was expected to master.

At age 20, he took the State Alchemist Exam. His brilliant use of his "Hammer Art", combined with the traditional Armstrong Family Alchemy Techniques, impressed the judges into letting him in. A year later, he found himself fighting on the front lines alongside the now-retired Lt. General Philip Mustang and other idealistic State Alchemists in the 1985 Purity Revolution. Ever since, like any Armstrong (with the exception of Lt. Colonel Alex Louis, who retired early), John Henry has risen by one rank after the other until he reached his current position as a General Officer.

Being the highest-ranking State Alchemist, with the exception of the Führer himself (Lt. General Mustang retired for unknown reasons the year before), General Armstrong has been given the newly formed designation of "Chief State Alchemist Supervisor". That is to say, all State Alchemists, no matter who their commanding officers are, have a final responsibility to him.

General Armstrong is the grandson of the late Alex Louis Armstrong, and shares many similarities with him, including an identical face and physique. Although he doesn't go about and show off his unrivalled musculature as frequently as his ancestor, he _does_ refer to his talents that have been "passed along the Armstrong line for generations" more often than one would want. This has been known to have resulted in some situations with the Führer that involved one rude interruption or another. Despite this, Abrams respects the general's skills and better judgment, a perfect reason to keep him in his position.

Quote: "Dog biscuits, Major Lycanthi. A recipe that has been passed along the Armstrong line for generations!"

Name: Tristan Havoc  
Gender: M  
Age: 73  
Occupation: Lieutenant Führer, Co-Founder of _NutriCom™ Incorporated  
_Race: Human  
Hometown: Central  
Rank: General, Lieutenant Führer  
Appearance:  
Imagine Lt. Havoc, only a little more muscular, in his mid 30's. The appearance has a perfect explanation, which can be found in his bio.

Gadgets/Equipment:  
- A .45 Caliber USP  
- An ever-present bottle of _NutriCom™_ Natural Supplements

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
His years of experience as a general have turned him into a highly effective tactician and strategist. He is also a fair shot with a sidearm. Aside from that, he can smooth-talk almost anybody into buying _NutriCom™_ products.

Bio:  
Tristan Havoc is the son of the late Major Jean Havoc and Katherine Elle Armstrong (she fell for him after he started pumping iron). He grew up in the presence of his father's smoking habits, which irritated him to no end. This resulted in a more of an "I told you so", rather than an "Oh, God, he's dead!" mental state when his father died of lung cancer.

He was commissioned in the military as a Platoon Leader at age 19, where he began his career. It was here where he met a particularly 'eccentric' medical State Alchemist by the name of Roen Carlberg, who was apparently convinced that supplementing with natural vitamins was a better (and certainly far more cost effective) way of staying young and healthy rather than using a Philosopher's Stone to switch bodies. As of the establishment of the 1925 Philosopher's Folly Act, Philosopher's Stones had become illegal, anyway. Having been influenced by his father's untimely death, his interest in the subject grew.

Eventually, he and Doctor Carlberg founded _NutriCom™_, the first and biggest producer of natural vitamins in Amestris. Even with this, however, he maintained his military career (supplementing along the way) until he finally hit the big "G Rank". During the 1985 Purity Revolution, he was easily Abrams' greatest supporter, using _NutriCom™'s_ vast pool of resources to fund the uprising troops and their cause.

He also functioned as the revolution's second-in-command, which carried over to the new government. Abrams didn't hesitate to appoint him as Lieutenant Führer. General Havoc appears half his age due to the success of the natural supplementation, which he almost religiously believes in. He will not hesitate to bring _NutriCom™_ into any conversation, to the annoyance of his colleagues. Usually, he would brag about how it makes him look half his age. Indeed, many people mistake him to be his own son, _NutriCom™_ Vice President Denver Havoc. The general's ultimate goal is to live a hundred-fifty years through supplementation.

Quote: "I might be over 70, but that doesn't mean I can't throw down with the rest of you!"

Name: Nelson Northrop, aliases include: "Mothman", "Nessie", "Darkbootie", "Disembodied-Head", and "Tunaghost"  
Gender: M  
Age: 64  
Occupation: Chief Intelligence Officer, Chief Investigations Officer  
Race: Human  
Hometown: Central  
Rank: Lieutenant General  
Appearance:  
Due to his circular spectacles and rather balding head, many people believe that he holds an eerie physical resemblance to Lieutenant General Grumman, though this is merely the effect of having similar hair and eyewear.

Gadgets/Equipment:  
- A 9mm GLOCK Pistol

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
As Chief of Intelligence, Lieutenant General Northrop is an expert at siphoning, processing, acquiring, and manipulating intelligence. He is known to have one of the sharpest minds in the State Military, capable of correctly deducing the causes of events that he has only witnessed for a few minutes, if not seconds. He is also known for his nerves of steel, with him remaining calm even in the direst of situations.

Bio:  
Being the highest ranking intelligence officer in the State Military, General Northrop has access to files so confidential that the Führer and Lieutenant Führer are the only other people who are privy to them. Such a job also requires much secrecy. He constantly maintains a low profile so as to avoid assassinations of any sort, and frequents to have one of several aliases (complete with false photograph) posted on the papers or aired on television in lieu of himself should he get any form of credit. Despite this, anybody in the military who isn't a new recruit knows him by face and name.

As opposed to the Führer's stern composure, and General Armstrong's and General Havoc's boisterous blabbering, General Northrop is a generally quiet and polite person. Laid-back, in a way, charming in another. He's the kind of person you'd expect to have a nice chat with while sitting at a garden table for some afternoon tea. A truly refined gentleman. Although one of the most refined of officers in the military, Northrop is nevertheless one of the clumsier of the bunch, frequently almost tripping, or something of the sort. One would wonder how he managed to survive all those years serving under Intelligence.

Due to a recent attack on the Führer by the ILF, resulting in the death of the previous Chief of Investigations, Lt. General Cobra, General Northrop has been temporarily given this designation until a more permanent replacement from within Investigations itself can be found.

Quote: "At ease, people. This isn't boot camp!"

Name: Jurdis  
Gender: M  
Age: 18  
Occupation: Prophet of Ishballa, Supreme Commander of the ILF  
Race: Human  
Homtown: Ishbal  
Appearance:  
5'11, brown hair, red eyes, and brown skin. Has short, standy bangs that stick out from the ends of his face. The rest of his hair sticks up and slighty back. Wears an orange, beat up vest with a long-sleeve white shirt under it, along with sunglass when out in public, and black pants, and boots.

Gadgets/Equipment: N/A

Alchemic Skills: Has strange, identical markings on both his arms, which allow him to analyze and deconstruct matter. He can also reconstruct matter, but the teachings of the Neo-Ishballan cult forbid it.

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
Has trained rigorously in hand-to-hand fighting, and can also use firearms.

Bio:  
Chosen from birth to be the next prophet of Ishballa, Jurdis was tattooed with what has become known as the traditional 'Mark of the Prophet', which allows him to exert the 'Will of God'. Raised to learn the history and struggle of the Ishballan people, Jurdis is very conscientious of the current state of his people, and despises those who had forced the Ishballans underground. He leads the ILF, the Ishballan Liberation Front, in a campaign to bring the Ishballan people out of the darkness and to a new home. He vows to kill anyone that stands in his, or rather, Ishballa's way.

Quote: "This arm will ensure you will not leave this room alive."

Name: Edgar "Ed" Rockbell  
Gender: M  
Age: 18  
Occupation: Automail Mechanic, CEO of RockMail Corporation, Alchemist  
Race: Human  
Hometown: Resembool  
Appearance:  
Ed from CoS, with a dark gray business suit under his trench coat.

Gadgets/Equipment:  
- A large wrench  
- His army of bodyguards  
- Automail right foot  
- Whatever he transmutes

Alchemic Skills:  
Edgar has the creativity of the person who he resembles - the legendary Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric, who was a close childhood friend of his grandmother's. He has no real alchemic specialty and transmutes whatever he can get his hands on at the time. To point out, Edgar has seen The Gate, and hence is capable of transmutation without circles. His usual tactic is to transmute his wrench into whatever weapon is viable at the moment. Of course, not that he needs to, since he doesn't get into that many fights.

Non-Alchemic Skills:  
His triple treat of an occupation reflects his three sets of skills. On one hand, Edgar is a highly gifted Alchemist. On another, he's even more gifted as an Automail Mechanic. Finally, a high-class and corporation-oriented lifestyle has led to him becoming quite the shrewd businessman, though not as shrewd as his younger brother, Allan. And of course, he is also skilled at close combat.

Bio:  
CEO Edgar Rockbell is the older of the Rockbell brothers, famed as the youngest pair of men to own and manage their own corporation. Descended from genius Automail Mechanic, and RockMail's original founder, Winry Rockbell, Edgar is just as good as his grandmother. Born to succeed his parents in running the corporation, he and his younger brother, Al, were educated in the fine arts of Automail Engineering and Business Management. An interesting thing of note, the brothers for some reason began an independent study of Alchemy on their own accord. They began their careers at 12 and 11, respectively, starting out as junior executives and spending their time working their way up the corporate ladder. Two years later, their parents went on an indefinite 'second honeymoon' to Xing, leaving the brothers in charge of the corporation, much to the chagrin of their elder cousin, Poella "Poe" Rockbell, who believed herself slated to become CEO (she instead became Executive Vice President).

During this time, Edgar attempted a human transmutation not to resurrect the dead, but for the sole purpose of seeing the Gate and the ultimate truth that lay within - the greatest secrets of Alchemy. He had the entire thing planned out from the beginning, and sacrificed his right foot in the process to satisfy Equivalent Exchange. This, he himself replaced with an Automail foot that he had prepared for the occasion. As to what happened to the materials used in the human transmutation, well, that's not the focus of the story.

Edgar is the CEO of RockMail Corporation, and hence, has the highest executive position in the corporation, outranking his brother Al, the President. He is a smart character, but can be a bit childish at times... most times, actually. He is hot tempered, and, although isn't... vertically challenged... gets very riled up whenever somebody talks about how his grandmother allegedly had a romantic tryst with the Fullmetal Alchemist's younger brother, which allegedly resulted in her single parenthood (Fullmetal and his brother are said to have fought off an invasion from another world and have not been seen since).

Quote: "What did you say about my grandmother!?"

Name: Allan "Al" Rockbell

Gender: M

Age: 17

Occupation: Automail Mechanic, President of RockMail Corporation, State Alchemist

Race: Human  
Hometown: Resembool

Appearance:

Al from CoS, only with short hair, and a dark green business suit.

Gadgets/Equipment:

- A multi-purpose screwdriver

- RockMail Corporation itself

- A box of chalk  
- Whatever he transmutes

Alchemic Skills:

Although Allan is incapable of transmuting without circles, as he has yet to see the Gate, he is nonetheless quite the skilled alchemist and makes up for his lack of circle-less alchemy by creating more innovative transmutations than his brother, Ed. He doesn't specialize in any form of alchemy either.

Non-Alchemic Skills:

Al, being the more business-oriented of the two (he prefers managing assets instead of working on parts), is therefore the shrewder and more cunning businessman. He can completely turn around any deal that starts out bad for him. Just because he's more into making money than the process that makes it, though, doesn't mean that he doesn't know his automail. He can fix any product of theirs into something that's good as new. Add close combat skills to his repertoire.

Bio:

President Allan Rockbell is the younger of the Rockbell brothers. As president, he handles the more tedious administrative work that defines the mentioned job in a corporation. This is more of play than work for him, however, as he has a great interest in the subject covered by his job. Having grown up in such a setting, he always puts the good of the corporation ahead of any other goals he might have, and is known to frequently mouth off some random slogan or another that he suddenly thinks of. Al started his career at 11, and is now the youngest person in the world to have an executive position in a company of RockMail's scale.

Al is the calmer of the two - the Rockbell Brothers' voice of reason. Along with this cool and collectiveness comes a shrewd and cunning that is so evident that it makes other people somewhat... fear... the teenager. That being said, he doesn't appear to be the maniacal evil genius who's always quiet, brooding, and smiles at people like they're next on his hit list. The younger Rockbell is actually quite amiable, and frequently restrains his brother, Ed, from whacking people to death with his wrench whenever they comment on the allegations on their grandmother. Al is also an acquaintance of the Führer, and is one of the few people who actually have yet to tick him off. Not that he plans to, anyway. A friendship with the most powerful man in the country is good for business!

Quote: "Thinking about automail? Then think RockMail!"

Name: Blasphemy

Gender: M

Age: Unknown

Occupation: "Causer of Disturbances"

Race: Homunculus

Appearance:

Pale, standing at 6', and definitively buff. He wears a black denim vest, enough gold jewelry to buy a few cars, black pants, high-cut combat boots, and sports a Mohawk. Did I mention that he has an Ouroboros on his right-hand middle finger?

Gadgets/Equipment:

- His Bling

- A Pouch of Red Stones (for lunch or something)

Non-Alchemic Skills:

Blasphemy is the "Ultimate Obscenity", threatening, yet at the same time, hilarious. His voice becomes a powerful sonic boom whenever he swears. It's not just loud, it's also highly destructive. Combined with his extremely vulgar attitude, the other homunculi find him, at the very least, difficult, and the most, impossible, to work with. Like any homunculus, he has an equivalent number of 1UP's as the number of red stones in his system, and has the according agility. His physical power is also something to be aware of, and he has been known to be capable of punching through up to two feet of solid steel.

Bio:

Blasphemy was created when some unnamed guy attempted a human transmutation on the person he was based on. Blasphemy was found by someone who he only refers to as the Boss. Whoever this Boss was, gave him enough red stones to get by, and a name. It wasn't one of the seven deadly sins, but it sure as hell was on the "DON'Ts" on the Ten Commandments.

Blasphemy is extremely vulgar, and hence, swears a lot, inadvertently triggering his powers quite often when unneeded. But he doesn't seem to care. As of now, he finds that highly convenient, as his apparent assignment from the Boss is to "cause disturbances" throughout the country. Whatever the reason, well, who knows?

Quote: "Ah pity da foo who lives through five o' mah outbursts only to taste five more!"


End file.
